


The Torching of the Westwood

by BasilGrey



Series: The World of the Westwood [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: (actually his name is a reference to the Sockburn Worm of England), Acts of Kindness, Acts of Wait Don’t Set The Forest On Fire, Annoying Wyverns, Blind Character, Dragons, Evil Princesses, Gen, Hopefully represented well!, I really love these guys, Kind Dragons, Medieval Fantasy, Princes Who Just Want to Live Peacefully, Royal Wyverns, Short Story, Sockburn does set the servants’ socks on fire; that’s canon, lotsa fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-10-28 10:22:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20776991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BasilGrey/pseuds/BasilGrey
Summary: The Torching of The Westwood - and the Dragon Who Stopped The FireInvolving dragons who don't fly, princes who don't see, and princesses who don't realize that it's a bad idea to set an entire forest on fire.Blagdon just wants to be free, and Prince Cecil just wants to go home.Also, hope is a powerful thing.[Cross-posted from Wattpad. Original entry for mythandlegend's Creatures of the Myth contest!]





	The Torching of the Westwood

_XĪWÀNG : [Eastern - W. China] A large lóng species dragon of the West Orient. Locally held as an auspicious symbol of hope and the water associated with the spring rains. Pale azure in color; said to be between 40 and 55 m. in length. Four-clawed; wingless. Commonly thought to deliver rain to areas worthy of deliverance from drought and turmoil._

_–The Livingstone Encyclopaedia of Legendary World Creatures, 1811 printing_

* * *

The Princess of Trahern was not one to mince words. She said what she thought, and ordered it done. It was then done, because she paid well and honestly scared most people, and that was reason enough for her orders to be followed.

"Burn it," the Princess ordered, rather suddenly.

However, there were some things that were difficult, as an advisor, to allow her to do.

"The... forest, your majesty?"

"Yes," she replied. She stood by the tall castle window, gazing out at the Westwood and the trail that led across the valley and to a very small neighboring kingdom. Far away, in open coppices and clearings, the gleam of silver armor was faintly visible. "Burn it to the ground. Encircle them with the fire, so that they cannot outrun it."

The chancellor, a wiry, older man who had the good wisdom to outlive many prior assistants to the princess, hesitated.

"With... all due respect, Princess, there's more than their army in those woods. Several of our villages are there as well."

"They will live," the Princess began coolly, lingering by the lattice for a moment as she looked out. "Or they will not. It is a small price to pay for peace of mind, don't you think?"

The chancellor did not, but he had seen the fate of many others who said as much, so he simply pursed his lips.

The Princess seemed pleased at his silence, and smiled. Her dark hair shone hickory in the sunlight. In truth, she was not pretty, even if it were just for the obsessive gleam in her amber eyes. There was a certain impressive appearance in power, he supposed—but it was the same as there had been in the dragons of old.

She stepped out of the light and back into the shadows.

Gloria of Trahern looked like an ordinary royal, except for her eyes. They were golden, bright and always shifting, thinking and never showing what they were thinking about.

She, of course, would be safe in her stone castle from such a fire. The castle town would be safe. But the rest of the valley—the dry Westwood, the struggling north fields, the settlements all around—would likely burn as well, if the fire could not be controlled.

The river-dam and castle moat should have been overflowing at this time of year. Instead, they were of wading depth, growing over with algae and dying yellow grasses.

"I do love bonfires," she said simply, not really paying attention to him. "Imagine one that lights up the world.” 

* * *

It had not been a good growing year. 

The rains from the East had not come. Where there was usually lush vegetation and soft weeds flooding the forest floor, there was now only dry sticks and the crooked figures of young trees that would not fully leaf until they'd been watered. The pines, as always, stood silent and tall, though they had dropped an excess of orange needles that now blanketed most of the ground below.

A few sparse strands of yellowed wildgrass grew through the mat, but little else. 

Blagdon lowered his head further to fit under the lowest pine branches, and continued to lumber down the dragon-worn path. 

The surrounding trees were scratched and gashed from hundreds of years of passersby—unintentionally by spiked tails, and intentionally by claws. Many old scorch marks had left some of the trees with sooty scales nearly as large and dark as most of his own. 

The creeks and streams had all but dried up. A thin trickle or two of muddy water was all that remained of the mountain-fed waterways. The old lake was where all creatures were forced to resort to drinking from, but the water did not seem ideal. It tasted sharply of algae and fish remains. 

The thumb-claw on his left wing snagged a large branch despite his efforts to keep his massive form streamlined. His shoulder twitched involuntarily, and the branch splintered off at the trunk. 

For a moment, Blagdon paused, tilting his head up to the sky. 

The sky was solid blue—a stark, pale blue, with only a wisp of a single cloud to be seen. A thin breeze ruffled the tops of the trees, promising good winds higher up. 

It would be so easy to_ fly._ To climb up the cliffs and boulders and stretch his glossy wings; to beat them hard and jump, and flatten the world under the force of the air he pushed down. To circle the castle town and hear the shrieks and cries of amazement carried up on the wind from below, then to turn and perch on the mountains, watching his kingdom from above. 

It would be easy to feel wrought-iron harpoons piercing the membranes of his wings again, and see the ballistas and onagers and trebuchets all aiming for him, because _a flying dragon needed to be a dead dragon—_

It was his kingdom, _and_ it was a human kingdom—but human eyes didn't see that way. They didn't see the way dragons let squirrels and songbirds and otters scamper around beneath them, all sharing the same territory. They didn't see that they were _small_, and small creatures were free to make their living beneath dragon wings, if that was all they were after.

They didn't see that _no one was out to hunt them_. Cattle, yes; sheep, yes—they were for food. They were hard to find in the wild. They were easy to find in the pastures. But humans were not hunted. Dragons had been gifted with some intelligence. Humans were not bothered, because they were _always_ more trouble than they could ever be worth. 

They seemed to hate it when dragons flew.

Even a short flight from dens to watering holes was spotted instantly from the castle, and roused the palace guard into a state of frenzied preparation. Crossbows were loaded and arrows were nocked. A crowd of tiny silver soldiers would gather atop the outer walls, glinting faintly as they milled around in the light of sun or moon.

It was terrible strategy, really. One blast of fire would roast them in their shells like turtles.

The castle wyvern—a small, gleaming-eyed, snakelike messenger of the princess's—was sent to inform the beasts that they were not to fly within a hundred leagues of the castle.

Of course, a hundred leagues away was too far for even the largest night-dragon to be seen by the castle watchers. A gold fire drake would barely be seen as a sparkle. The Westwood was enormous, and covered most of the valley on this side of the castle and surrounded several kingdom villages—but it was bordered by mountains, and even those were not three hundred miles away.

Dragons did not _need_ to fly, he supposed. They could perch on cliffs at night and swoop down upon their prey—or merely hide and pounce, if they had stealth enough. Their wings were massive, but even then, flying in the wrong winds caused enough strain on them that it felt like his shoulders would snap.

But to fly was to be free, and without that, dragons were little more than large lizards of the Westwood.

Perhaps that's what humans wanted.

* * *

The Prince stood alone in the balcony gardens, one hand resting on a stone pillar to support him. 

The breeze felt as though it brought healing to his face. It smelled of herbs and green things, and cool earth and cabbage. He did like cabbage. He was glad that they grew something up here. 

He was _so_ high up. The wind on his face was thin and nearly cold.

He'd seen this tower, back in the days before his condition had been caused. It was the highest tower of Trahern Castle, made of pale stone and surrounded by the base of the guard. It was impenetrable, just as it was supposed to be.

"_You will stay here until you become useful,_" the princess had said curtly. "_I have told your kingdom time and time again that their presence on my borders is neither needed nor welcome. I am in command here. I will await your family's payment for this... unsummoned guest."_

He was still here, so it was likely he had not become useful. He highly doubted he ever would be. 

"_Besides_," she'd muttered as she'd strode past him. "_You'd think they'd have learned from last time, wouldn't you, Blind Prince?" _

_Prince Cecil the Blinded, sole heir to the woodland kingdom of Ophir._

He wasn't a _blind_ prince. Not quite. His left eye in particular was cloudy and turning white, and his right wasn't much closer to its prior grey. But he could still _see_ _things_, and movement and lights and color, and sometimes facial expressions if the person stood right. 

_"I... really need to return home, Your Highness." _

_"Nonsense. You are our guest. Guards, escort our visitor to his room."_

He hadn't been able to see much, as of late. He wasn't certain he'd recognize the path back down through the castle even if he _could_ escape. But it could get better. Fresh air made his aching eyes feel better, anyhow.

He did his eye exercises—look close up, look far away, press the heels of his palms gently over his eyes for a minute.

It was too easy to think up here. He remained alone, wandering the top room of the tower, continually waiting for his portion of food and water to be sent in the dumbwaiter.

It smelled stale up here, in this room full of books and maps he couldn't read. What he wouldn't have _given_ to be here with full sight—there seemed to be hundreds of thick volumes on the shelves, few of which felt familiar. 

A hollow ache in his chest returned, thinking of poring through books as a little boy and having a mother to read the ones he didn't quite understand.

Tales of adventurers, real and fantastic, had flooded his head as a boy. Books of hidden treasure, of kings and queens and battles and wondrous creatures.

Dragons were not uncommon in their forests. He'd often glimpsed them grazing or sunning themselves, back when he could explore his future kingdom. Even now, he was certain he'd seen the fabled Royal Wyvern of Trahern, or a statue of him, poised on a table when he'd been pushed up to the tower. 

Common wyverns were horrific pests. Flying snakes with large webbed wings, really. The barbs on their tails released a poison when lashed that often left their attackers on the brink of consciousness for days. 

The Royal wyvern, of ancestors who used their intelligence and powers of repetition to assist the king, was a different animal entirely. Most wyverns were more snake than dragon. The Royal breed touted being more dragon than snake. 

(Not that that seemed like something to tout, if you asked him. But to each his own.)

Sockburn was its name, and he seemed a bit of a disgrace to dragonkind.

"Your _friends-s-s_ are coming for you," the creature hissed, curling and uncurling as it maintained precarious balance on the balcony railing. Wyverns had little in the way of hind limbs to cling with. It had flown up from somewhere below, with a sibilant voice and a message to repeat like a hissing parrot. "Tell the Blind Prince that his _army_ seeks to _rescue_ him. He can't see it, of course. Neither will they see him." 

All the Prince could admit to seeing was a wiggling dark blob that seemed like it could easily be knocked off the railing. 

"Is that so?" he murmured thoughtfully. 

When one is a prisoner, it is probably wise not to defenestrate a royal messenger. The thought was still tempting. _It would be so easy—_

It'd probably get him lashed and bitten. He couldn't see well enough to clean wounds. Trying to discern infection through a colorless fog wasn't something he should attempt.

"Your kingdom will _BURN_," the wyvern spat, rearing up to its full cobra-like height. Cecil almost drew back. It was taller than the common ones he'd seen servants chasing out of the stables. "The forest will _BURN_. No _army_ approaches Trahern within its borders. _OPHIR WILL BURN."_

Before the last word was out of Sockburn's throat, a sharp punch connected with its windpipe and the wyvern went spiraling off the balcony.

* * *

The heavy scent of smoke drifted through the air.

At first, Blagdon ignored it. Younger dragons often sparred and spat flames.

After a minute, his nostrils flared, and he raised his head from where he'd been resting it on the warm rock. This smoke smelled _off_. 

Dragon fire has a distinct smell, like that of white-hot ash—possibly with a hint of some recent dragon-meal.

This smelled like burning pine.

* * *

It was soldiers.

Soldiers in the dark armor of Trahern, dozens of them, all quietly arrayed and armed with blazing torches. They were walking quietly, staggered in a curved pattern, so that each would lower their torch and light an arc of dry brush behind the next.

The smell of tallow and cloth and _wood, so much wood_ filled the air.

* * *

"Ophir," sputtered the smallest dragon that had nearly crashed in front of him. Its spindly wings nearly dwarfed its lean grey body. "Their army is in the woods. They are surrounded by fire and they ask if it is dragon." 

Blagdon stared at the small dragon for a moment, then gave the dragon equivalent of a frown. 

"How did you answer?"

The dragon looked offended, as if it were an insult to question ones speaking skills regarding a human. "I said if it _was_, we would kill it! And that we have no desire to burn our own forest!" 

Blagdon lifted his head to his full height, turning it to look over the swaying tops of the pine trees and toward the great white castle.

"I... will ask the torchers to answer for this," he said lowly. 

The smaller dragons glanced to each other warily. "What do you mean?"

Blagdon arched his back, spines standing on end, and spread his leathery wings.

"They will _stop this fire!" _he roared as he took off into the air. 

His wings fanned the flames as he rose, extinguishing the closest flames and causing everything in a ring around him to flare up past the treetops.

* * *

Something was wrong. 

From his balcony—where he liked to stay, since it took his mind off having so many books he couldn't read—he could make out a dark haze that grew larger down the valley. It was blackish, and cloudy, and had to be smoke.

_YOUR KINGDOM WILL BURN—_

_THE FOREST WILL BURN—_

_OPHIR WILL BURN. _

He was gripping the wooden handrail very tightly now. 

_Lord, oh Lord, please_—

Was this it? They had kidnapped him and were burning his kingdom while the men were out trying to rescue him? Ophir was a small kingdom. It barely extended out past the end of the wooded valley, and the rest of it was mountains.

Why? His dear mother was firm but wanted only peace. He was the same. _Why?_

Something was _so_ very wrong.

His second clue that something was amiss was the sound of a massive wind rushing through the treetops and bending the trees. From below on the castle wall, someone shouted an alarm, and someone blew a trumpet call—

"_Dragonnn!"_

And the torrent of wind came closer, followed by the sound of something massive striking the tower roof.

_CRR—EAAAACH..._

Heart in his throat, trying to take steady breaths and not fear something massive that he could not see, Cecil forced himself to follow the handrail and wall and creep back inside the balcony door.

"_WHO IS HERE?"_ growled a thunderous voice. The walls shook. Pictures rattled. A bookcase creaked.

_Stay—calm—stay—calm— _

_They can always smell humans, can't they?_

"P-Pr—ince Cecil of Ophir, your honor," he managed, not proud of his stammering or of not knowing which title dragons preferred. It was commonly held that they enjoyed any title of power, but surely being falsely flattering would earn a dragon's wrath.

"_WHY ARE YOU HERE?"_ the voice demanded. A dark shadow grew over the balcony—the whole balcony. 

It had _landed on the roof. _

"I—I-I have been taken," Cecil managed, not sure if the creature could even hear him as his voice shook. Resolving to speak a bit louder, he pressed his back to the wall and tried to focus on the coolness of the stone. "—Captive. I am a prisoner here, y-your greatness. I am from the kingdom Ophir in the forest. My home is being burned and I-I believe my men are trying to come for me." 

Silence. 

Slowly, a massive purple dragon head bent down, _upside-down, _and looked at the prince who stood trembling in the doorway. 

Something about the way its head tilted seemed thoughtful. 

"Then I mean you no harm," the dragon said, more quietly this time. "The forest is your home, too." 

The hesitant pounding of Cecil's heart almost drowned out its next words. 

"May I help you return, Your Highness?"

* * *

_Up. _

There was really no word for the feeling. The sensation where—closing your eyes tightly—gravity drops, and you are weightless for a moment of launch, mind scrambling to make sense of where the ground went and where you are now headed.

He lay slightly to the left of the spiked armor on the dragon's spine, right arm and leg wound around the bony protrusions for safety.

Cecil kept his forehead pressed to the bony scales on the back of the dragon. There was no reason to keep his head up—he would see nothing but the darkness of oncoming smoke, and it was not worth the risk of losing his grip.

There was no jarring motion like there was on a horse. No risk of potholes causing him to slam his head on the woodwork like in a carriage.

There was only the magnitude of scale that caused a deep heave when the dragon took a massive breath. But he could move with the expansion of scales, and sink down with them when the dragon let out breath—and beside that, he was gliding on air.

Gliding. He was flying.

He was flying;_ he was flying._

He could picture the world below—the tops of trees like pencil points, the streams and rivers like winding blue bootlaces. The hills full of cattle and the clearings full of birds. The backs of the largest dragons peeking up through the trees, their dorsal spines glinting in the afternoon sun. That tower was _nothing_, nothing but the center of a sundial, casting a long shadow to tell the time.

Then, the smoke hit him, so thick that he could hardly breathe. 

_"I am sorry!"_ roared the dragon—not that dragons usually _needed_ to roar. But there was _other_ roaring, the crackling and consumption of everything below, and a temperature that was too warm and only rising. "_There is nowhere you can get off here. I'll take you to the Cliffs. We will decide what to do!"_

The air changed, and the scales on Blagdon's back shifted and stretched, and again came that sensation of _up_. 

He could picture vividly what he would see if the world was all right. He could also see what it really was.

Still, he propped himself up on wobbly elbows, hair blowing wildly in the wind as he blinked hard and tried to focus his eyes.

There was only a blurry world of purple scales beneath him. Above, all was bluish-black and sooty grey.

Another burst of smoke threatened to choke him. He was sure he could hear shouting from far below.

Cecil closed his eyes tight and bowed his head again. He bit his lip hard, trying to keep his shoulders from shaking. 

He could not see his home burning.

But he could smell the sharp smoke, and taste the ash in the air, and feel the hot stench on his face, and in some ways, that was worse.

* * *

His mother had told him tales of the hopeful water dragon from the East.

She was a huge sky serpent, he was told—an oriental emblem of blessing on the worthy and prosperity. Bluer than the skies, more iridescent than the bubbles that surfaced on the dishwater. She brought life and clear water and good spring rains.

_Si_-_wang_, his mother had said, was its name. _Xīwàng_ was a better spelling that he'd found in the library of their small woodland palace.

His book said painfully little about kind beasts in the world far away. But the lionish faces, catfish-like whiskers, and swimming through the air of the Eastern dragons had always captured his imagination.

He would likely never know why the West was filled with dragons that fought and hoarded and did whatever they thought was best for them. Certainly there were exceptions—the dragon that was flying him here, over to the rocky cliffs that jutted out over the forest was most definitely one of them—but dragons who breathed fire could not halt the inferno. As much as they tried, they could only fan the flames. 

Why did none of the Eastern dragons come here? Why couldn't there be both species, one brash and powerful and one wise and auspicious? Did one drive out the other? It seemed that where one had fire, one must have water. Where there was black, there was white. Wasn't that what the East found to be true? 

There was no clear water now, or spring rains. There was soon to be little life left. 

_Where was hope?_ Where was rescue from disaster? What could be done?

Blagdon, the dragon, began to land. He did so slowly, probably out of consideration for his cargo. His muscles stretched under his scales, and his wings beat with the force of a gale, lowering him to the clifftop. 

Gently, the dragon knelt and stretched one wing against the rock. Straining his eyes to see where to get a foothold, Cecil quietly slid down, clambering where he had to.

He stood unsteadily on the rock for a minute, hands out a bit for balance. Blagdon watched him closely.

"Can you see?" inquired the dragon.

Cecil looked up at him. A massive, dark silhouette stood there, of a purplish color and very strange, spiny shape. His eyes darted back and forth as he tried to gather the full silhouette in his mind.

"Enough," the prince answered softly.

The air was laden with ash. They were close enough to hear the shouts and screams of the people below. 

His head ached. The pounding in his temples did not help his vision. He could just barely see pinpoints, like through the end of a tunnel, and every part of his peripherals made him dizzy. He shut his eyes and held his head, shaking it.

"I think I'm losing hope," he confided softly to the dragon. 

The wind changed. 

Blagdon, with speed unexpected of such a large creature, whipped his head around, a growl already in his throat. Cecil stiffened, and tried to follow the dragon's gaze.

Both of them stopped very still.

Over the mountains behind them, something flowed, weaving in slow motion through the pass between mountain peaks. 

It was almost eellike in motion, and anguilliform in shape. It looked set to pass far overhead, and but it was still enormous. 

_Surely it wasn't— _

Blagdon stared up at the strange dragon, his breathing short and uncertain. Head tilted upward, he gave a resounding _boom_ from his throat, followed by a questioning _trrp?_

Cecil grimaced and rubbed his eyes, but when he looked back, all he could make out was a bank of dark blue _stormclouds_ rolling over the mountains. 

Thunder rumbled, and the splatter of heavy drops began to echo from the mountainside. The treetops rustled with rain, and quickly, the sound of running water accumulated on the steep rocks. 

An electrical sensation pulsed above his head. 

_Do not fear fire, nor water. They bring new life. _

A thick spout of cold water rained down on him, and he gasped at the temperature, sputtering for breath. The dragon passed on, and he was left trying to shield his face from the water that poured from his plastered hair and into his eyes and mouth and clothes. 

There was—_something_ in the water; it was making his eyes itch. He blinked and rubbed at them, trying to dry his hands enough to be useful, but his eyes stung. 

And yet— 

Every blink, every time he refocused—it yielded a world that was clearer than before.

The water mixed with his own in his eyes, and as he blinked, his vision cleared.

His left eye still felt a bit cloudier than his right, and both still ached as he tried to focus—but _he could see_. 

Well enough, and at a distance better than up close. A massive azure tail drifted up away from him, so clearly, the creature attached undulating through the air as if swimming.

To have wings was wondrous, he decided.

To have _none_ was surreal.

She turned, and slowly drifted down through the firmament in front of him, and at last _floated there_ for a long moment.

He had always read that Eastern dragons had the eyes of demons. But now that one floated gently in the air in front of him, head dipped unusually low to look at him face-to-face, he couldn't see it. Her eyes were large and slitted and striking, jade green and marbled like a cat's. A very large cat, with a lionlike muzzle and the ears of an ox, and huge catfish whiskers that drifted like she was suspended in water.

He could see her—_see her!_—even if she was a bit blurred on the left, and yet he still _sensed_ her. She smelled of the cool wind that brings the spring rains. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, because she felt electric, full of energy like a thunderstorm.

A gentle, ethereal voice spoke in his mind.

_You did not lose hope._

_You are strong. Be brave, little one._

_Do you see what hope will do?_

* * *

Very few returned home that night.

The survivors of the fire were ushered to hastily-built infirmary shelters. The villagers of Ophir milled about, faces black with soot, children wide-eyed and uncertain. An uncomfortable number of homeless dragons peered in from the edges of the new encampment.

Prince Cecil, whose kingdom could barely be called more than a small forest full of smaller villages, felt his bleary eyes begin to dry from the smoke in the air.

He blinked a few times. A colorless fog was starting to creep back into his vision.

_But—the water—_

The world was still parched, even after the heavy rain. His eyes were drying.

That was when Sockburn fell unceremoniously from the sky and crumpled into a heap on the ground.

He lifted his head from the ground, and looked up to see a small crowd of stern faces.

"_Chth_..." the wyvern spat, meaning something rather rude and chthonic in wyvernish. "'Tell them they will BURN FOR WHAT THEY DID. ALL OF THEM! I WILL NOT BE LOCKED UP! I AM QUEEN OF THE CASTLE; THERE IS NONE OTHER! I AM FIT TO RULE! _NO CHANCELLOR SHALL TAKE MY PLACE—'"_

"Put a sock in it," Cecil said softly.

The wyvern stopped, mid-message, and stared at the Prince with an unreadable expression.

Blagdon broke the news gently. "Nobody likes you, Sockburn."

Sockburn did not take the news well—if it could truly be called "news". He hissed out a thin stream of fire, before sidewinding rapidly into the thorny brush. Blagdon swung his tail in that direction to smash through a few dry bushes, just in case.

Ramshackle shelters had been erected here in a less-burnt clearing, and makeshift tents had been set up.

A few heavily stone-encircled fire pits had been made, cooking pots placed atop them, but no one seemed eager to start another fire.

"What will we do now?" an uncertain voice asked from behind him.

Cecil turned to see the head royal advisor, an older woman who barely spared Blagdon a second glance.

_I will find my mother_, was his first, instinctive thought. And then:

"We will rebuild."

* * *

The stream was full and clear.

Dragons and humans and deer formed a hesitant truce to come here. Finches flitted at the edges of the bank, while an otter dove and splashed in the cool depths. A group of elk slowly approached and drank their fill. Three small dragons took turns gulping water and then spitting it at each other in bursts of steam.

In a quieter place on a rocky bank, Prince Cecil looked down at the water.

Slowly, he knelt and cupped his hands, bringing some up to drink.

Then, with a hopeful prayer, he splashed some on his face.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: And that's a wrap! It was tons of fun to write this entry. It went kind of like this:
> 
> Me, May 1st: Oh, cool! Write about a mythological creature while using the theme of “hope”? This is a great contest idea! And it's even two months long, so I have plenty of time to polish up my entry.
> 
> Me, June 25th: wait oH MAN I HAVEN'T COME UP WITH AN IDEA FOR THAT CONTEST YET—
> 
> I have about 2495803 fantasy OCs (give or take a few), so you'd think it wouldn't be so hard to pick one to use for this prompt. None of them currently have life stories that quite present the overarching theme of hope, however, so I finally just dusted off my dragon character and made him a hero. His full story, and how he was the last of the day-dragons to be affected by the Darkness, is chronicled in Dragon Fire. Coming soon to a vague blurb in my Wattpad random book near you! (Actually, it's been there for a while. xD)
> 
> I am super open to advice from those more well-versed in Chinese culture and dragon lore than I am! Sadly, I rushed to finish this and only did a hurried half hour of research on the subject. Same with Cecil's partial blindness—his situation is obviously a little fantastical, but I wanted him to be a realistic character who wasn't difficult to relate to. If anyone has any advice on how to improve my writing, please let me know!
> 
> Thanks for reading, and hope you enjoyed!


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